


Ravens and Writing Desks

by finx



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Age of Ultron and all that follows have never happened, Bucky needs a hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Gen, I have to tell you in the tags, Kid Fic, MCU-compliant up through Winter Soldier, Natasha Needs a Hug, because it takes over five chapters for it to come up in-story, congratulations you know more than Sam, giving hugs may lead to stabbing, let's pretend it was intentional, this is a problem, this is called dramatic irony
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-04-08 05:43:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 16,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4292928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finx/pseuds/finx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If it had been a normal bomb, no one would have been caught in the blast. As it was, Sam was the only one out of range. Now he has a gaggle of children on his hands, and everyone seems to think they should be his responsibility.</p><p>First task: don't get shot by suspicious tweens who have better aim than you.</p><p> </p><p>  <i><strike>title subject to change as I figure out what the heck I'm doing</strike></i><br/><i>title probably not going to change any time soon because I still don't know what I'm doing</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bomb

If it had been a normal bomb, no one would have been caught in the blast. JARVIS had scanned the building for traps, but – as Stark had repeatedly complained to anyone who would listen – magic reads differently just about every time you scan it. Stark was _this close_ to identifying a reliable pattern in Dr. Foster's readings, he kept insisting, but for now all they had to go on was whether Thor got a funny feeling. This method was even less reliable than it could have been, since Thor so rarely remembered to stop mid-battle and see if the air felt wibbly.

Sam wasn’t thinking about that as he winged desperately away from the wave of furious red light that shot out from the warehouse below him. He wasn’t thinking how lucky it was that Hill’s agents had finished evacuating the docks not five minutes ago, so no civilians would be caught in the blast, though later he wondered if a real Avenger would have been. He was barely thinking of the pull and burn in his arms, the stiff angle of his legs that would give that extra boost of speed.

Every inch of his focus was on the static in his ear, desperate for the slightest sign of life. All he could hear was the echo of Steve’s voice, frantic and clipped, cutting off mid-word. _“Tony, Sam, Thor, fly up! Get as far as yo—”_

The red light burned out a good twenty-five yards above the warehouse, licking at Sam’s ankles as he lunged for the sky. He pulled up and hovered for a moment, scanning the warehouse for movement. There was still nothing but static on his comm. Sam swore. “Check in, guys, check in, don’t be dead don’t you dare be _fucking_ dead!”

The warehouse was still in one piece; as far as Sam could tell the red light hadn’t affected it at all. The static in his ear seemed to mean the comms were down; Hill would probably have been shouting in his ear by now otherwise, orders or information or whatever it was Hill did. Sam still wasn’t totally sure. He could see her agents already pouring out of the black vans on the outskirts of the docks and swarming toward the warehouse. They’d be there in minutes.

That was why the Avengers weren’t answering, Sam told himself: the comms were taken out in the explosion. No other reason.

Except he couldn’t hear the Hulk. Dr. Banner had been in the warehouse, and an explosion like this should have triggered a transformation, but all Sam could hear were the squawking cries of confused seagulls.

“Fuck it.” Sam tucked in his legs and plummetted, firing a couple bullets into the nearest window before slamming into it feet first. His goggles adjusted immediately to the darkness in the warehouse, and he saw the shipping container in front of him just in time to duck and roll as he landed on it with an almighty clatter that echoed through the building.

He was hardly being stealthy, but when the echoes died down he was greeted with nothing but silence. Sam peered over the edge of the shipping container and found an empty warehouse. To his right were the open bay doors, hanging off their hinges from Thor’s enthusiastic entrance. Over by the back wall was a pile of smashed computer servers and some overturned chairs – the only sign that Hydra had been here and left in a hurry – but the Avengers were nowhere to be seen.

“Guys?” Sam swooped to the ground and paced toward the computers, peering between the towering stacks of shipping containers as he passed them. “Steve? Stark, are you there?”

There was a slight rustle of fabric from the far end of the warehouse, followed by what might have been a whisper. Sam snapped his gun up and edged closer, ready to duck behind the nearest shipping container if bullets started flying.

A flash of red and gold caught his eye – the Iron Man suit, open and empty, crumpled against the wall. Sam tensed. Stark would never leave his suit like that voluntarily, and few things on the planet could force him to leave it involuntarily.

“They better not be dead,” Sam called out. “If you’ve hurt them, I swear, you will not live to see the sunset.”

There was no answer. Sam eyed the last shipping container between him and the back wall – as far as he could tell the whisper had come from behind it – and fired up his wings. They weren’t quiet, but he’d found that even with plenty of warning most people didn’t know how to deal with his particular brand of aerial attack.

He kicked off and barreled up and over the shipping container, going for maximum speed. He crested the edge of the container and banked hard to avoid the wall, guns at the ready.

Sam wasn’t expecting the delighted shrieks that greeted his appearance, but that wasn’t what nearly sent him into the wall in shock. Instead of a squad of Hydra soldiers, Sam was flying over a pack of children. One of them had two pistols trained on him, but the rest were gaping at him in varying stages of amazement. The giggly shrieks were coming from a toddler, who was clapping happily.

The child with the guns had fiery red hair and flat green eyes. She hadn’t fired a single shot. Sam pulled up sharply and staggered to a landing a few feet away from her. A boy at her side raised a bow – Barton’s bow – and aimed an arrow at Sam’s heart.

Sam stared. The girl couldn’t have been more than ten years old, and her black body armor was far too big for her. Her stance was strong and her hands didn’t tremble with the weight of the pistols.

“Natasha?”

The girl gave him a suspicious frown. “How do you know my name?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Sam Wilson but I don't know him very well, so if you think he seems ooc or just if you have any advice for me at all please let me know.


	2. Impossible Is Part of the Job Description

It was impossible. It was beyond impossible. But that was Barton, looking about twelve, aiming a bow almost as tall as he was with his usual easy grace. At Natasha’s other side was Thor, whose armor fit him perfectly even though he was the size of an eight-year-old. He held Mjölnir loosely in one hand as he glanced uneasily between Sam and Natasha. His feet were planted firmly, ready for a fight. Behind them was a thin, barefoot teenager in over-large sweats who had to be Stark, his eyes wide and fixed on Sam’s guns. The toddler on Stark’s hip had Dr. Banner’s heavy features, and was still cooing about the “fyin' man.” The blond boy on Stark’s other side was so tiny, it took Sam a moment to even find Steve under the layers of fabric that seemed determined to bury him. His helmet was clutched awkwardly against his chest; Stark had his other hand in a death grip. Steve must have been about six, but he didn’t look scared at all; he was biting his lip like Sam was a puzzle he had to figure out.

“I’m a friend,” Sam said quickly, holstering the guns and raising his hands up in front of him. He was glad to see Stark relax a fraction at the gesture, though no one else seemed to find it especially reassuring. Natasha’s frown deepened, but otherwise she didn’t react. Barton’s eyes flicked to her; when he saw she hadn’t moved, he didn’t lower his arrow either.

“My name is Sam. You’ve just been hit by… I don’t know what it was. A spell, probably. How much do you remember?”

“I do not—”

“Don’t answer that,” Natasha hissed. Thor snapped his mouth shut.

“Fine,” Sam said. “That’s okay. But did you see anybody else in the building? This is important. Was there anyone else here?”

After a moment, Natasha shook her head. Sam wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. He didn’t relish the thought of fighting Hydra alone, but it would have been a blessing to have someone to question.

Even if there were no enemies nearby, they could be on their way, or there could be another trap. Sam eyed the gaping bay doors uneasily. “I need to get you guys somewhere safe.”

It was the wrong thing to say. “Stay away from them!” Natasha shouted, crouching as if to spring at him. Barton pulled the arrow back an extra inch. Stark tightened his grip on Banner and backed up against the wall, dragging Steve with him.

“No!” Steve yelled, yanking his hand out of Stark’s. “Don’t shoot him!”

Natasha froze, fingers still on the triggers. “Keep out of this,” she snarled. “We don’t know him.”

“Maybe we do. I trust him,” Steve said stubbornly. “And so do you.”

Sam held his breath, eyes on Natasha. His armor would take the worst of the damage if she shot him, even at this range, but the armor only covered his torso. If he started doing this full-time, he’d have to talk to Stark about some aerodynamic upgrades. So long as Natasha didn’t get Sam's legs or any vital points on the wings, he could probably get to cover, but that would only last until she realized he wasn’t going to shoot back.

In the silence, Dr. Banner started to cry.

Sam sighed. Slowly, carefully, doing his best not to look down the barrel of Natasha’s guns, he went to his knees and raised his hands to the level of his head. “I’m a friend,” he repeated. “I’m not going to hurt you. But there could be another trap here, a bomb or worse, and I don’t want to set it off. Let me take you somewhere safe. Please. I promise I’ll protect you.”

“I say we go with him,” Steve said bossily, and stomped forward.

He hadn’t taken two steps when he tripped on his pants and fell flat on his face. Stark hurried forward to help him up. Thor gave him a worried look. “I too trust the winged man,” he declared.

“Me too,” Stark said quietly. “Not sure why. Same way I trust all of you.”

Natasha hesitated. She glanced over at Barton, who hadn’t reacted to any of this, then back at Sam. He met her gaze steadily and didn’t move.

“Fine,” she said, and lowered her pistols. Barton followed half a beat later, letting his bowstring go slack. “But I’m not letting any of them out of my sight.”

“Uh, guys?” Stark said anxiously. “I think he’s hurt.”

Steve was tangled up in his uniform, struggling to rise even with Stark’s help. Sam nearly had a heart attack when he saw that Steve’s face was bright with blood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of dove into this story with no exit plan, so... if anybody has any ideas, suggestions, requests, or even random insights to offer, I'd be much obliged and more than willing to incorporate them into the story.  
> Constructive criticism is also always, always welcome :)


	3. Captain America Needs Your Help

Steve had scraped his jaw against the ground when he fell, and was now valiantly holding back tears as he bled all over his uniform. Stark was freaking out, and Dr. Banner was wailing fit to raise the dead. Thor looked like he wanted to start crying himself, or possibly hit something. He was hugging Mjölnir to his chest like a teddy bear.

Natasha looked lost, though she hid it pretty well. Sam felt for her. “I have a first aid kit in my gear,” he offered. “May I?”

While she deliberated, Barton risked a glance at the mess behind him, and gaped in horror. “You got this?” he said to Natasha, indicating Sam; she nodded. Barton stepped over to Steve and knelt beside him, rubbing his arms and saying something in a quiet, soothing voice. At Natasha’s reluctant nod, Sam pulled out the kit and handed it to Thor, who took it gratefully and ran to offer it to Barton.

“I have people waiting outside who can help,” Sam said to Natasha. “Is it okay if I go talk to them?”

Natasha narrowed her eyes at him. “Fine. But don’t bring anyone here,” she ordered. “No one gets near them until I say it’s okay.”

Sam smiled. “No problem.”

Hill’s people, it turned out, had surrounded the building. They’d come up to the open bay doors and caught sight of Sam going to his knees, and proceeded to post snipers on every surrounding rooftop, including a few who were ready to dive in through the windows much as Sam had done. Sam was impressed. He didn’t even know they were there until he stepped outside and was immediately flagged down by a black-clad agent with a machine gun.

Natasha and Barton seemed to accept Hill far more easily than they’d accepted Sam, which he did his best not to be offended by. For her part, Hill managed not to gape as she took in the sight of the Avengers. She recovered quickly, and immediately started snapping orders into her comm. In no time at all she had a black van backed into the warehouse.

Natasha refused to let the kids anywhere near it until she had checked it thoroughly. “Will you ride with the driver?” she asked Sam, a little hesitantly. He solemnly promised he would.

It took an hour to get to Avengers Tower. Hill drove. Sam told her everything he knew, which was basically nothing, and she spent the rest of the ride getting updates from the tech team she’d left at the warehouse. Their reports also amounted to basically nothing.

They were nearly at the Tower when Sam remembered Barnes. He grabbed for his phone and called the Tower.

JARVIS picked up before the first ring, which was jarring every time it happened. _“Good afternoon, Airman Wilson.”_

“Hey Jarvis. Look, something’s come up. Could you put me through to Sergeant Barnes?”

_“Has Sir been injured? I lost contact with the suit quite abruptly.”_

“No, no, Stark's—he hasn't been hurt. Neither have the others. They’re—” Hill was frowning at something her tech team was telling her. Sam tapped her on the shoulder. “Can I say this over the phone?”

“Hmm?” She glanced over at him. “You’re talking to Jarvis, right? There’s no way to hack that connection. Go ahead.”

“Right. Jarvis, this is top secret, okay? Nobody gets this info without Hill’s say-so.”

_“Understood, sir.”_

“The Avengers have been turned into children. We have no idea how, and nowhere to put them that’s safer than the Tower. I figure Barnes should be warned.”

_“Children, sir?”_

“Yep. Worst of all, they don’t seem to remember who they are.”

 _“I see.”_ JARVIS seemed remarkably unruffled by the news. Perks of being a computer program, Sam supposed. _“Sergeant Barnes is currently asleep. Would you like me to wake him?”_

“No, no, don’t do that.” Sam tried not to be relieved that he wouldn’t have to talk to Barnes just yet. “Just let him know when he wakes up, so he doesn’t walk in on a bunch of kids and freak out.”

_“Indeed, sir. Will that be all?”_

“I think so. Thanks, Jarvis.”

_“Very well, sir.”_

They reached the Tower in another ten minutes. The two armored cars that had been following them at a discreet distance peeled away as Hill pulled into the private garage. “Get them upstairs,” she ordered Sam as she stepped out of the van. “Don’t be seen. Don’t let them leave the building.”

“What? What about you? Where are you going?”

Hill flashed him an impatient look. “The Avengers are out of commission. I need to find out who did this and how to fix it.”

“But you’re sending someone to take care of the kids, right?”

 _“The Avengers are out of commission,”_ she repeated. “There is no one I can trust with this information who isn’t more valuable to me finding out what happened. Except you. So suck it up.”

With that, she stalked away across the garage, already firing orders into her comm, leaving Sam to gape after her in disbelief.

“That’s the Black Widow in there,” he shouted at her retreating back.

“So stay on her good side,” Hill answered without breaking stride.

Sam took a deep breath. Then he took another. The elevator in the wall nearest the van dinged open; clearly JARVIS had noticed their arrival.

“You wanted to be an Avenger,” he muttered to himself. “You wanted to fly again, be a hero.” _Look where it got you._

This was meant to have been a test run, an easy job just to see if Sam could fit in with the team. He wasn’t even supposed to have done more than surveillance and emergency backup.

“Captain America needs my help,” he told the steering wheel, to see if it carried the same thrill as it had the first few times. It didn’t.

_Next time stay on the ground, genius._


	4. Arriving at the Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter's a bit late. It's a little longer, though, so hopefully it evens out. I'm trying to post every four days, but I have a final project due tomorrow and a final math exam coming up, so things may not go according to plan.

“Good morning, Master Barnes. How are you feeling?”

Bucky groaned. He was supposed to answer. He was supposed to tell JARVIS whether he felt at all like a person today. He pulled a pillow over his face and thought about screaming into it.

“All good, Jarvis. No need to sound the alarm.”

“I am pleased to hear it, sir.”

Bucky turned his head to squint at the clock on the wall: half past three. Either he’d slept straight through to the afternoon or he’d woken up in the middle of the night again.

“Airman Wilson just called, sir. He will be arriving shortly with the Avengers.”

 _Steve._ Bucky had some choice words to say to Steve. Words about privacy, and clinginess, and watching Bucky’s every move with his eyes so full of hope Bucky felt he might choke on how utter and complete a disappointment he was. Every time he saw those eyes Bucky guiltily tried to remember something, anything, to make Steve happy, but all he ever got was biting agony and blood on his hands.

At least it was better than the looks he got from everyone else. Stark saw him as some freak science experiment gone wrong, Banner edged away from him as if he might explode, the two spies offered him nothing but false smiles and a strange feeling they knew all of his secrets, and Thor—

Bucky hadn’t figured Thor out yet, actually. Thor was a mystery. A loud, boisterous, excessively friendly mystery who never seemed to worry that Bucky might flip out and stab him to death.

“When will they be here?” He hadn’t been able to say it yet – hadn’t found a way to tell Steve to back off that wouldn’t come off wrong.

 _That’s a lie, Barnes._ He’d found plenty of ways. The trouble was actually saying it.

“I estimate two minutes. They are currently in the private garage. Airman Wilson has requested—”

“Is it daytime, Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir. Airman Wilson has requested I inform you that—”

“Fuck.” Steve would be up soon, then, knocking on his door and asking in a timid voice if Bucky was up for some company. Bucky appreciated the knocking, but he hated the voice. He hated being treated like he’d shatter at a sudden noise.

He hated how often it was true.

“—the Avengers have been turned into children.”

Bucky sat up. “What?”

 

~*~

 

When Sam opened the back of the van, it was to four pairs of startled eyes and one suspicious glower. Steve had taken off his uniform and had it wrapped around him like the world’s most bizarrely shaped blanket, and Banner was asleep in Stark’s lap.

“We’re here,” Sam said weakly. Natasha stepped out of the van and swept her eyes over the empty garage. Before she could deem the place safe, Steve hopped out and looked around with interest. Natasha gave a sigh of deep-seated frustration, which was so familiar from months of chasing after the Winter Soldier that Sam found himself immediately grimacing in sympathy. 

“We talked in the car,” said a voice at the level of his knees. Sam looked down to find Steve’s earnest face turned up to him. “We decided to trust you. Tony says you’re probably not a kidnapper,” the boy said seriously, “and Thor says folks with wings are special.”

“I’m touched,” Sam managed to get out. “Steve—why are you naked?”

Steve stuck his chin out and clutched his uniform closer. “None of your business!”

“Okay then. But I bet you’re cold. How about you put on my sweater?” Sam slipped off his hoodie and offered it to the boy. Steve took it warily. “I won’t look,” Sam promised, and turned away.

He found Barton and Stark both staring at him. Stark pointedly rolled his eyes. “Just cause you’re nice to _kids,”_ he sneered. He hefted Banner and stalked over to the elevator. “You could still be a kidnapper,” he sniffed as he passed Sam. Barton followed, an inscrutable look on his face. Thor had already leaped out of the van and started running around the garage, poking at cars with Mjölnir. Natasha was watching him, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

Sam felt a tug on his pants. Steve was almost as dwarfed by the hoodie as he had been by his uniform, but at least it only came down to his knees. He’d be able to walk without falling over.

“Thank you,” Steve said politely. He blushed. “And I was only naked cause Nat said I had to be able to run, and I don’t got any underwear.”

 _No underwear under the suit,_ Sam remembered. He’d always thought that seemed like a bit of a design flaw. “No worries, kiddo.” He patted Steve awkwardly on the head. “We’ll get you some new clothes as soon as we can.”

“Really?!” Steve grinned in delight and ran over to the elevator. “Tony, Tony, did you hear? I’m getting new clothes!”

Sam shook his head. They would all need new clothes, and Dr. Banner probably needed special toddler food or something. _What if he needs diapers?_ Sam shuddered. He picked up Steve’s uniform and grabbed his flight suit from under one of the seats. “Thor,” he called. “Time to go, buddy.” Thor gave a blue sedan one last shove, rocking it gently, and sprinted over.

“How do you know all our names?” Natasha asked softly from a few feet away.

Sam reached for an answer, and came up short. “I don’t—I’ll tell you when we get upstairs, okay?”

Natasha nodded without meeting his eyes and trailed after him into the elevator. She looked terribly small. Sam had never before felt such an urge to give the Black Widow a hug, even if she was probably still capable of breaking his arm if he took the liberty. Barton put a worried hand on Natasha’s shoulder, and she leaned into the touch almost automatically before casting a quick glance at Sam. When she saw he was still watching, she shrugged Barton’s hand away and straightened into military attention.

 _What does she think I’m going to do?_ Sam wondered. _Tell her no dating until she’s sixteen?_ More importantly, where did a child learn to stand at attention, or search a van for booby traps?

Thor barreled into the back of Sam’s legs, nearly knocking him over. “Got you!” the boy giggled. Sam ruffled his hair with a laugh and hit the button for the Avengers’ communal floor.

“How come that didn’t work when I tried it?” Stark had been in the middle of an involved discussion with Steve on the importance of dressing fashionably, but he interrupted it to poke at a few elevator buttons. None of them lit up for him. “Is it coded to your fingerprints? Or is there a trick to how you press the buttons? Is it the angle or the force? Or it could be a combination of both—maybe it’s a matter of adjusting for height and body type…” Stark started jabbing at buttons and muttering to himself. Sam found himself trying not to laugh.

In retrospect, Sam probably hadn’t needed to press any buttons at all – JARVIS would have taken them up if Sam had just asked. But then he’d have to introduce the kids to JARVIS while they were all in the elevator, and a disembodied AI butler would definitely raise awkward questions. Sam wanted to wait until they were somewhere relatively safe and stable before he tried to figure out how to break the news to the Avengers that they were, well, the Avengers.

The elevator opened onto a small hallway – Stark said it was for hanging your jackets and leaving your shoes, and when Sam asked if they didn’t have closets for that he’d just said “It’s Scandinavian design, Flyboy, it’s charming, get with the program.” When Sam asked Thor, he’d said it was so enemies couldn’t rush them, and proceeded to take Sam on an enthusiastic and surprisingly technical tour of the Tower’s security features.

Thor seemed a lot less interested in security this time around. He poked Steve, shouted “Race you!” and took off down the hallway. Steve gave a shout of indignation and raced after him. Natasha said something low and vicious in Russian before sprinting after Steve. She caught him in three strides, scooped him up, and hissed, “No running.”

“But _Natasha,”_ Steve whined. “He’s gonna beat me!”

Natasha shook her head. “You run, you’ll get hurt. We talked in the car, remember?”

It took a moment for Sam to remember that Steve, before he’d gotten all jacked up on super-serum, had been so frail and sickly it was a miracle he could even get out of bed in the mornings. Cold shot down his spine. Steve was tiny now, nothing like his usual self – not even like Thor, who was pretty buff for an eight-year-old. He was probably one asthma attack away from sudden death.

 _Dammit, Hill._ Steve needed a doctor, and fast. Surely Hill had Steve’s old medical file somewhere. Hell, he could probably find it on the internet.

Stark was still pushing buttons and mumbling under his breath. Clint dragged him away with a roll of his eyes and an exasperated, “Come on, genius. You can camp out in the elevator later.” Sam pulled out his phone and followed them into the communal area.

Hill picked up on the third ring. “Is it an emergency?”

“Not yet,” Sam said. “But Steve’s been de-serumed. He could have all his old diseases back.”

There was a brief pause.

“ _Fuck._ I’ll send someone over,” Hill said. “Keep him from doing anything too… anything. There’s a small hospital bay in the tower, for when agents get injured – tell Jarvis to have them send up an inhaler. If anyone asks, tell them… Dr. Banner’s testing its effects on the Hulk. And don’t let him eat anything unless you’re sure he won’t be allergic. Get an epi-pen from medical, too, just in case. Jarvis might be able to help you with the rest.”

“Will do.”

Hill hung up. Sam pocketed his phone and looked up to find Natasha watching him guardedly. After a moment, she said, “You know about Steve’s ailments.”

Sam nodded. “I do.”

“And you know who we are,” Stark added from where he was setting a still-sleeping Banner down on a loveseat. The toddler curled up with a frown and stuck a thumb in his mouth. “And you know how we ended up in that warehouse.”

“You know why we don’t remember anything,” Barton said from behind Sam, making him jump. Barton went over to Natasha and placed himself deliberately at her side. Thor and Steve pulled themselves up onto a sofa and gave Sam twin looks of expectation.

Stark dropped into an armchair and fixed his eyes on Sam. “So spill.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally I think Sam and Hill are both overreacting to Steve being de-serumed - he survived well enough the first time around, after all - but they're both freaking out at the thought that they might lose their good friend who is also Captain America, so I think they can be excused.  
> Most of Natasha's word choices are deliberate. She's not a native English speaker; hence words like 'ailments'. And she's being deliberately vague about certain things ("you'll get hurt" instead of "you'll have an asthma attack and keel over").


	5. Quick Version

“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” said JARVIS.

The effect he had was immediate. Natasha dropped to a crouch and pulled out both her guns, trying to aim them everywhere at once. Steve and Thor both leapt to their feet, standing on the couch, and looked for the source of the voice, while Stark snapped his head around to each of the three doors leading out of the communal area. Barton, weirdly, didn’t react except to give Natasha a confused look.

“My name is JARVIS,” the AI continued, unperturbed. Stark gave a little start at that. “I am an artificial intelligence in charge of the Tower’s operations, among other things. Airman Wilson, I have taken the liberty of contacting the medical personnel and requesting an inhaler and an epi-pen. I also have Captain Rogers’ medical file on record, should you care to peruse it.”

Stark’s jaw dropped almost to the floor. _“You have an AI?”_ he screeched. Barton jumped about a foot in the air, and Bruce – it was getting increasingly difficult for Sam to think of him as ‘Dr. Banner’ – jolted awake and hid behind the nearest cushion. “How did you get an AI? Did you make it yourself? How much can it do?” Sam opened his mouth to answer, then decided against it when Stark kept right on talking. “How long did it take you to build it? I’ve always wanted to make one, but Dad says AIs are a pipe dream.” Stark made a face. “Where do you keep his brain? How does he talk? His voice is so lifelike, he sounds just like a human—”

Sam sat down and waited for the boy to finish.

“What is an AI?” Thor whispered to Steve.

“I think it’s some kind of robot,” Steve whispered back. Neither of them was very good at whispering.

“What is a robot?” Thor asked.

“It’s a machine that looks like a person and does stuff for you. Sometimes they’re evil and try to kill everybody.”

Thor looked alarmed. “Does this happen often?”

Steve frowned as he considered the issue. “I don’t think so. I’ve never heard it on the news.”

“What are the news?”

Barton had been whispering (far more efficiently) to Natasha, who was answering his questions with quick nods or shakes of the head. Sam didn’t think either of them looked very happy with the conversation. “Tony,” Barton finally said out loud, “we were about to get an explanation for all this, remember?”

“But Clint, they have _artificial intelligence!”_

Barton ignored him. “Fine,” Stark grumbled, “but I had better get those answers.” He crossed his arms and fell straight into an honest-to-god sulk. Sam shook his head in amazement.

“First of all,” Sam announced, “Jarvis isn’t going to kill anybody. He’s very friendly. I did not build him, no, and I have no idea how he works. Jarvis might be able to tell you himself,” he said to Stark. “He’s a lot smarter than I am.”

“I’m sure that’s such a high bar,” Stark muttered.

Sam raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Jarvis is pretty much a person,” he continued, “and he’s here to help you out. If you have any questions about anything, just ask him. He’ll hear you so long as you’re in the Tower.”

“And if we leave the Tower?” Stark challenged.

Sam sucked in a breath. If the Avengers left the Tower, whatever Hydra cell had done this to them – assuming it even was Hydra – could be on them in minutes. Almost worse was the possibility that the press would see them, or some clever bystander would post a picture to the internet, and soon it would be all over the news. _Bite-Size Avengers: Villains, Come and Get’Em._

Steve and Thor would probably stay in the Tower if Sam told them to, and Bruce was too young to run away, but the older kids were all eyeing him with varying levels of defiance and distrust. Sam gulped. Even as kids, he was pretty sure all three of them could slip away from him with ease. “If you leave the Tower, take a phone or a comm unit. I’ll get you some. But for the love of God, please don’t leave the Tower. If anyone sees you…”

Natasha shifted subtly into a fighting stance. “Is someone searching for us?”

“Not yet. But if… certain people see you, they’ll try to kill you. It’s better if they don’t see you.”

“Is it the Ice Giants?” Thor cried. He stood up on the couch and thrust Mjölnir into the air. “I fear no Ice Giants! I will vanquish them all!”

“Is it Germans?” Steve said with a fierce scowl. “Da always said the Germans would come back.”

“No, no, it’s not the—well actually I’m not sure what Hydra’s deal is. I think they’re pretty international these days. They’re not Ice Giants, though. You can sit down, Thor.”

“Oh,” said Steve. “But if we stay in here, the hydra won’t find us, right?”

“Right,” Sam promised. Thor sat down, looking disappointed.

“Okay,” said Steve. “Do you think we could maybe eat now? Please?”

“We still haven’t gotten any answers!” Stark exploded.

“But I’m hungry,” Steve said in a small voice. “And we decided to trust Sam, ’member?”

Sam thought the puppy dog eyes Steve turned on Stark could probably stop wars. The older boy seemed to have been stunned speechless. “We–I–you’re the only one who said we should trust him!” Stark finally spluttered, turning red. “I just said yes so you’d shut up!”

Sam sighed.  _Dancing around the subject is getting us nowhere fast._ “Okay, quick version,” Sam said. “Jarvis, what year is it?”

“Two thousand fifteen, sir.”

Stark went pale; Natasha froze. “What does that mean?” Thor whispered to Steve.

“It means we’re in the future,” Steve answered, sounding more awed than afraid.

Sam stood up. “And in the future, you’re superheroes. If your enemies find out you’re so young and vulnerable, they will have a field day trying to murder us all. So don’t leave the Tower. Now come on, kitchen’s this way. I bet you’re all starving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret to say this fic will be going on hiatus for a month, as a friend of mine is visiting from out of the country. I've endeavored not to leave you with too bad a cliff hanger, and I will come back in September and start posting again.
> 
> I hope the rest of you have as amazing an August as I'm about to have!


	6. Robots Can Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your comments, they make my day, every single one!  
> I hope August was just as great for you as it was for me. Sadly, since I'm now in school, I'm going to be updating a lot more sporadically. As always, though, any and all feedback is really appreciated.

The kitchen presented Sam with an unexpected difficulty. He was sure he’d been in this room just a few weeks ago and it had in fact been a kitchen, but all he found now were paneled silver walls arranged around a pristine granite-top island. “Jarvis,” he said after a moment, “why is there no kitchen in this kitchen?”

The silver panels slid apart at his words, rearranging and slipping into cracks in the walls in a flurry of mechanized choreography. They revealed several ovens, a sink, two microwaves, a six-burner stove, and a short stretch of granite counter. Everything gleamed.

“Sir designed every aspect of Avengers Tower himself,” JARVIS said, presumably in response to Sam’s slack-jawed staring. “The kitchen was a point of particular pride.”

Sam eyed the minimal counter space. “Stark’s never cooked a day in his life, has he?”

“The culinary arts are not one of Sir’s strengths,” JARVIS sighed.

“Oh god, please tell me there’s food in the house.”

“Indeed, sir. Master Barton and Doctor Banner have been attempting to replicate the more interesting recipes they have encountered in their travels. The cupboards are well stocked.”

Sam went back through the tiny hallway to the living room, where Steve, Thor, and Stark had somehow gotten into a shouting match in the two minutes Sam had turned his back on them.

“Hey, what kind of allergies—”

That was when Sam noticed that the loveseat was empty. “Where’s Bruce?” he demanded, in a tone that cut straight through any noise in the room. The kids froze mid-word. “Was anyone watching him?” Sam asked. “How long has he been gone?”

None of the kids had an answer. Thor and Steve immediately jumped off the couch and started running around the room, calling for Bruce, while Stark frowned after them in apparent concentration. Sam resisted the urge to stalk over to the loveseat and start yanking aside cushions, in case Bruce was hiding in the gaps like lost change.

“Jarvis,” he said instead, trying to tamp down the panic at the edges of his voice, “where’s Bruce?”

“Clint will find him,” Natasha said quickly. “The little ones must eat now.” She nodded pointedly at Steve, and gave Sam a meaningful look. Sam hesitated, trying to decipher it. Finding Bruce was a lot more urgent than getting lunch.

On the other hand, it wouldn’t do if the younger kids were frightened, and if Sam went into a panic looking for Bruce, they would be.

“Jarvis,” he asked, still hesitant, “have you found him?”

“Yes, sir. He is in his bedroom.”

“Clint will get him,” Natasha said again before Sam could respond. “Jarvis can help him out. Clint,” she said, holding the boy’s eyes as if entrusting him with a great quest. “Will you bring Bruce here?”

Barton nodded, and Natasha pointed him toward the door to the bedrooms, so discreetly that Sam almost missed it. “Steve, Thor,” she called, “time for lunch.”

The boys cheered and ran for the kitchen. Sam hurried to follow before they managed to break something, like the walls.

 

~*~

 

Natasha watched as Sam – the woman at the warehouse had called him Falcon – followed the little ones into the kitchen. He did seem to care for the children, and his worry at losing Bruce seemed genuine, but– he had given in too easily, for one, to her assurance that Clint would fetch the toddler. Bruce was the youngest, the weakest link; a guard would want to be sure of his safety, and a proper minder wouldn’t have lost him in the first place.

If what Sam Falcon said was true… well, it would answer those questions; he would be unused to coralling children. It would explain his confusion at finding them in the warehouse, and how willing he had been to put down his weapons and go to his knees even though Natasha had been the one at a disadvantage, with children to protect and nothing to hide behind.

It would explain the clothes she was wearing, and the fact that she’d never seen a gun quite like the ones at her sides. It would, perhaps, explain the strange sense of… familiarity she felt at being here, in this building, with these people.

But the questions it would raise were much more impossible to answer.

“What are you thinking?” Tony asked, startling her. She wasn’t expecting to be watched, especially by someone who draped himself over his chair like a cat who was trying too hard, but Tony was studying her like she was a riddle to be cracked.

Natasha resisted the urge to curl away from his scrutiny, instead making her face blank as she answered. “Robots can lie.”

He frowned, skeptical. “Machines don’t lie. That’s not how they work.”

She shrugged, careful to make the gesture loose and fluid, unaggressive. “They can be lied to. Besides, he said this Jarvis is basically a person. Have you ever met a person who didn’t lie?”

Tony looked away. “The name’s not a coincidence,” he said quietly. “It can’t be. Jarvis is my… I know a man called Jarvis.”

“He is important to you?”

Tony nodded. Natasha tucked that away for further thought. If the people who built this place knew enough about Tony to use it against him in such subtle ways, what more did they know? What would she have to protect the boys from?

Falcon said the boys were superheroes in the future. If it was a manipulation tactic, it was a strange one. Natasha got told every day she was meant for great things. It didn’t exactly fill her with trust.

Sam Falcon’s voice rang out from the kitchen – “Thor, we do _not play with knives!”_ Natasha took a deep breath. She glanced over at Tony, a question in her eyes.

“If we must,” he said languidly, and sauntered over to the kitchen. After a moment, Natasha lifted her chin and went after him.

 


	7. Sign Language

The hallway was dark, and longer than Clint had expected. There were six doors spaced unevenly along both walls, all of them closed but one. Clint stepped through the open doorway into a shadowy bedroom with no windows. He gave his eyes a moment to adjust, scanning the room for any signs of an errant toddler.

The bedroom felt curiously empty. There was a wardrobe along one wall and a single painting of a seascape on another. The bedside table held nothing but a small lamp, and the bed was crisply made. It looked as lifelessly inviting as the hotel room Clint and Barney had stayed in after their parents died.

Clint pushed the memory away with practiced ease. There was an odd crease in the bedsheets, as if someone had tugged them toward the floor. On a hunch, Clint crouched by the bed and lifted the sheets that hung over the edge.

He found himself face to face with a pair of shining eyes, wide and scared. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but Clint thought Bruce was shaking with what might be pent-up sobs. “Hey,” he said softly. “How you doing down there?”

Bruce didn’t answer, as far as Clint could tell. “Do you want to come on out o’there?” Clint suggested. “Make it easier to talk.”

After a moment of consideration, Bruce shook his head. Clint sighed and flipped the bedsheets over the bed, so he wouldn’t have to hold them up. Bruce flinched away at the movement, scrambling back toward the far wall as if he thought Clint was going to drag him out. Clint ignored him, lowering himself to the floor and gazing up at the ceiling. “It got kinda loud in there, huh?” he said amicably. Clint could relate, although his definition of loud was usually different from other people’s. “I get that. Sometimes you just gotta to get away from all the mess. Get some distance.”

Clint had angled his head so he could still see Bruce out of the corner of his eye. The boy was watching him suspiciously, a shadow among shadows in the darkness under the bed. Clint knew most people wouldn’t even have been able to see the kid.

“This is a good hiding place,” he continued, “especially if no one’s looking for you.”  _God, I hope I’m getting the volume right._ Last thing he needed was to be shouting at the kid. “Next time you run into a room, though, close the door behind you. Otherwise people will guess where you’ve gone.” He shifted, tucking an arm under his head. “Best hiding place in a bedroom is usually the closet, if there are clothes in it you can hide under. Should be easy enough for someone your size, too, especially if the closet’s messy.” Clint’s preferred hiding place had always been on _top_ of any closets, but that didn’t work too well for most kids. There was a time in the fourth foster home when—

No. Clint pushed that memory away, too.

Bruce was saying something. From his face, Clint thought it might be a question, but he wasn’t sure.

“I can’t hear you,” Clint said, tapping one ear. “I’m deaf. Do you know what that means?” Bruce shook his head. “It means my ears don’t work too well. I can’t hear anything you say.”

Bruce looked a little bit horrified at that. “Hey, it’s not so bad.” Clint tried for a smile. “You learn to deal. If you talk slow and clear, I can usually get the picture. Do you know any sign language?”

Bruce shook his head.

“Well, I’ll teach you. Um… do you like animals?”

Bruce nodded hesitantly. Clint showed him how to sign _lion, tiger, wolf, rabbit,_ and _snake._ By the time he got to _monkey,_ Bruce had crawled forward so he was almost out from under the bed.

“And here, this is the sign for _bird,”_ Clint said, scooching away to make more room for Bruce. He put a hand in front of his mouth and pinched his thumb and forefinger together, opening and closing them like a beak. “That can be our secret sign for the flying man, how ’bout it?”

Bruce’s mouth curled into a smile, and his nose crinkled up – a giggle. Clint grinned. “Go on, practice it.”

Clint taught Bruce a few more animal signs, until Bruce had wiggled out from under the bed and was sitting cross-legged in front of him, laughing as he wagged his hand by his forehead for _cow._ He asked a question, mumbling too much for Clint to make out a single word. “Shit, I should probably teach you something actually useful, shouldn’t I? And I shouldn’t say shit. Sorry, kid.”

Bruce didn’t seem overly concerned. Clint showed him question words, then a few things like _happy, sad,_ and _bathroom._ Pretty soon he was just teaching the kid whatever came to mind. Bruce gobbled it all up, signing with all the clumsy enthusiasm a four-year-old could muster. They’d gone through over forty signs before Clint noticed that the room was no longer dark. He looked to the ceiling and saw dim lights glowing above the wardrobe.

Suddenly he felt uneasy, like he was being watched. He knew no one had come in and flicked the light switch – he’d have seen their shadow in the doorway, and anyway the switch was still turned to ‘off’. He wished he had his bow. His fingers prickled with the emptiness where it should be.

Bruce was carefully repeating the sign for _full,_ toddler coordination meaning it took several tries to get it right. “Hey, how much of this are you even remembering?” Clint asked to cover his discomfort.

 _All of it!_ Bruce signed, looking so ridiculously pleased with himself that Clint had to laugh. Bruce deflated instantly.

“Hey, no, it’s okay, I believe you. That’s really impressive. How about you show me what you’ve learned, then?”

Bruce really did remember everything; Clint only had to remind him of a few signs. “Damn, kid, you’re almost better at this than I am,” he said, faking grumpiness. Bruce giggled, grinning so wide it was like sunshine.

By this point the unmistakeable smells of dinner had crept down the hallway. Clint’s stomach was twisting itself into knots, and he wondered when he’d last eaten.

“Are you getting hungry too?” he asked. _Hungry,_ he signed, repeating the word out loud. _Are you hungry?_ Bruce nodded enthusiastically, copying the sign. “Whaddaya say we go see what’s for dinner, hmm?”

Bruce nodded again, but the smile vanished from his face.

Clint frowned. “Here,” he said. “This is the sign for _help.”_ Clint put his right fist on top of his left palm, thumb sticking upwards. “If it gets too loud again, or you need something but you don’t want everyone looking at you, just make this sign. I’ll help you out. Okay?”

Bruce gave him a shy, hopeful look, and dutifully copied the sign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know next to nothing about deafness or sign language, so while I've tried to be accurate and respectful, please let me know if you caught any mistakes or inconsistencies :)


	8. Concerned About Your Potential Reaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So clearly I have the best readers ever. You've all been super kind, and your comments still make my day every time.
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated, in particular anything about characterisation. I'm not really happy with this chapter, but it's taken me so long to write that at this point I just want it posted and done with. I hope you guys enjoy it, nonetheless :)

Steve and Thor clamored to help with the cooking, so Sam set them to peeling vegetables. This turned out to be a mistake when Thor tried to juggle a carrot, a zucchini, and a knife, telling Steve as he did that he’d learned the trick from a troupe of traveling troubadours. “My brother is much better at it,” he said awkwardly as all three objects thunked to the ground. The knife clattered to the floor perilously close to Steve’s foot, and Sam nearly had a heart attack.

Stark wandered in and ambled over to the stove to peer at the boiling water, Natasha slipping in behind him like a shadow. “There’s nothing in here,” Stark informed the room at large. “Are you planning on feeding us water? You’re not actually supposed to starve us, you know. For a kidnapper, you’re pretty bad at this. I give you a five out of ten.”

“He’s not a kidnapper,” Steve protested, brandishing a half-peeled carrot accusingly. “Stop being mean!”

Stark stuck his tongue out. Sam snorted. “We’re having pasta with ground beef,” he said from where he was chopping an onion and trying not to cry. “Want to help?”

“No way,” Stark said quickly. “I don’t cook.”

“Suit yourself. You can set the table, then. Dining room’s through there. ”

Stark side-eyed him. “That’s servants’ work,” he said snootily.

From the pause and the careful way he was watching Sam, waiting for his reaction, Sam figured it was a test of some sort. He didn’t know enough kids to guess what it might be. “Do you see any servants here?” Sam asked cooly.

“But I don’t know how,” Stark complained.

Sam raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. “You know what the table’s supposed to look like, right? Just make it look right. Plates and cutlery are in the cupboards in the dining room. Jarvis will help you out.”

Stark gave a little twitch at the name. “Fine,” he said shortly, and stalked through the kitchen’s other door into the dining room.

Natasha hovered by the back wall until Sam called her over to chop bell peppers. She seemed startled when he handed her the knife, and took it slowly, as if Sam might grab it back at any moment. It turned out she had no idea how to cut bell peppers, and Sam had to show her.

JARVIS announced the arrival of an intern with medical supplies for Steve, and Sam hurried to answer the door. The young woman in the elevator looked a little starstruck at the sight of Sam, and asked for his autograph. “Um—huh?” Sam answered intelligently. “Uh. Sure.” He took the pen and paper she offered, scrawled out a hasty autograph, then did his best to memorize her explanations of all the medical supplies she’d brought up. There was a lot more in there than an inhaler and an epi-pen. “But of course Dr Banner will know what all this is,” she interrupted herself about halfway through with a nervous giggle. “Look at me, rambling on when he’s got important research to do. I’ll just leave you to it, then.”

“Uh. Right. Thanks,” Sam said as the elevator doors shut. “Jarvis, you know what all this stuff is, right?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Okay. Any emergency starts happening, you tell me what to do, okay?”

Sam made his way back to the kitchen, stashing the medical bag in one of the living room cabinets as he passed them. Natasha was carefully dicing all the vegetables, glaring at them when they dared to come out uneven. Barton and Bruce reappeared some ten minutes later. Both of them crept through the door, quickly scanned the room, and scurried across the kitchen toward the dining room, where Steve and Stark could be heard enthusiastically telling Thor about squirrels.

“Hey,” Sam said. The boys froze in place and turned warily toward Sam. “Are you guys okay? Bruce, are you alright?” Bruce nodded shyly. “Hey, you’re all dusty. Where did that come from?”

Bruce looked down in apparent surprise at the grey fuzz all over his clothes. Barton followed his gaze, and his eyes widened in alarm. “My fault,” he blurted. “I got him dirty, it wasn’t his fault—”

Natasha sprang into action. “I’ll take care of it,” she said imperiously, herding the boys off toward the dining room. “Come on, Bruce, Clint, through here, you can’t sit at the table all covered in filth, that’s not sanitary, let’s go…”

Natasha’s voice trailed off as she led the boys away, flapping her hands at them like they were unruly pigeons, and Sam found himself abruptly alone and thoroughly confused.

He shook his head and went to check on the ground beef. “What just happened?” he asked the empty kitchen, stirring the meat sauce half-heartedly.

No room in the Tower was ever truly empty. “Behavioral analysis would seem to indicate,” JARVIS answered, “that Master Barton and Miss Romanoff are concerned about your potential reaction to Dr Banner’s state of disarray.”

“What? Why would they be—”

_“I hear Jerusalem bells a-ringing…”_

Sam grabbed for his cell phone. “For the love of god tell me you’ve found out how to fix this.”

 _“Not yet,”_ Hill said shortly. _“We’re working on it. Meanwhile I’m sending a doctor over_. _Codename Alice White; I’ll text you a picture. She’s not supposed to be in the country, though, so tell Jarvis to keep any footage he gets of her behind his strongest firewalls.”_

“Right. And she’ll find out what’s wrong with them?”

_“Hopefully. How are they doing?”_

Sam sighed. “Well, they seem to be taking it all pretty well,” he said, poking at the pasta. It seemed to be done; he turned off the heat and started looking for a collander. “Well as can be expected, anyway. The older ones don’t really trust me, but they haven’t blown up the building yet so I'm counting it a win.”

_“I guess that makes a nice change. How about Steve? Any problems?”_

“Nope. Hasn’t keeled over yet. A lady came up from medical, left a bag of stuff. We should be fine.”

_“Great. Keep me posted.”_

Hill hung up, and Sam pocketed his phone just in time to jump a foot in the air at the shriek that pealed from the dining room.

It sounded, Sam thought as he made a beeline for the door, an awful lot like “Bucky!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys have any better suggestions for what Sam's ringtone should be, I'm all ears


	9. Not Hallucinating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up immediately after Bucky's last appearance, at the beginning of chapter 4. The first paragraph of this chapter has some rather violent imagery. It's just a single sentence, but it's nothing like the tone of the rest of the story so I thought I'd let you know. If you're not in the mood for violent imagery, just skip to the second paragraph.

At first Bucky thought he must be dreaming, or else that he’d fallen back into one of his hallucinations. It’d been months since he’d had one, and this time he’d really thought they were gone for good. Granted, there was a lot less screaming than was usual for his hallucinations, and there was no tightly-wound sense of panic and alienation lodged between his lungs, so maybe this time Bucky wouldn’t have to feel himself pound Steve’s face into a lifeless mess of meat and bone shards, or pull the Black Widow’s heart out of her shattered chest as she laughed in his face, or dig his metal fingers into Tony Stark’s eyes and watch him choke on his own blood.

And of course the thought of all that was enough to send Bucky into the beginnings of a panic attack, a vise clamping over his lungs as he started to shake uncontrollably. “Pathetic, Barnes,” he gasped out. It didn’t help. He clenched his teeth and focused on his breathing, fixed his eyes on a stain in the carpet, tried to count to ten or something. He couldn’t remember how the stain had gotten there—did he spill something? Tony had these funny little robots running loose in the Tower, vacuuming things up and beeping softly whenever they bumped into the furniture. One of them could’ve cleaned up a spill before Bucky even noticed.

The first time Bucky’d seen the robots had been a few days after they’d let him out of his cell. Steve had led him up to the kitchen, where Hawkeye was perched on the granite-top island, flicking cereal onto the floor. One of the little robot vacuums was zipping around the base of the island, sucking up each piece of cereal with a satisfied whir before the next piece hit the floor. Bucky’s eyes had bugged right out of his head.

He’d waited for the relevant information to bubble to the surface of his mind, but either his programmers hadn’t thought vacuum cleaning robots were important, or this little guy was one of a kind. For the first time since he’d found out who he was, Bucky had actually felt like he was living in the future.

And hey look at that, the panic attack was gone. Bucky unclenched his fists from where they’d dug into the mattress. He’d torn through the sheets again, and felt a stab of rage at that. Every time that happened he found the sheets replaced within the week, and he was feeling more guilty each day about the sheer expense of keeping him here. Bad enough he was a brainwashed assassin with blood on his hands—he wasn’t even _housetrained._

Bucky snorted and looked at the clock. He’d lost a good half hour to the baby panic attack. “Jarvis,” he said, “was I dreaming when you said the Avengers are back?”

“Not at all, sir. They arrived twenty-six minutes ago.”

“I think maybe I still was a little. I coulda sworn you said… Never mind. Did Steve come by?”

“No, sir. Captain Rogers is in the kitchen, assisting Airman Wilson with supper.”

Bucky frowned. Steve always knocked on his door after a mission, even a little one. _What if he’s finally lost patience with me?_ Bucky thought before he could stop himself. He’d been trying, really he had. Just last week he’d actually started up conversation with Clint—it hadn’t lasted much, but they’d talked about…some normal thing. A TV show or something. Maybe Steve hadn’t noticed? Or maybe it just wasn’t enough.

Bucky shook his head, trying to push away the cold feeling in his stomach, and went to take a shower. He’d just have to find some way of making it up to Steve, of proving that he really was getting better. He could start by shaving, meticulously. He combed back his hair, too, rooted through his closet for clothes that actually matched, and briefly considered stealing some make-up out of Tony’s press kit to cover the bags under his eyes. That might be too much, though – he’d never worn make-up before, as far as he could remember, and Steve would probably ask about it.

The face in the mirror still looked sallow and unhealthy, but Bucky was more presentable than he’d been in… a while. He forced himself to stand up straight in the elevator ride down to the dining room, even though just knowing JARVIS had cameras on him made him want to curl in on himself and hide. He hadn’t brought a weapon – not even a knife in his boot. _I don’t need it,_ he told himself. _I don’t._

When the door slid open and Bucky turned into the dining room, he was faced with a cacophany of unexpected children. There was one in a cape, a lanky one making wild hand gestures as he talked a mile a minute, a stocky one with a toddler attached to his shirt, a redhead standing stiffly to one side, and—

“Stevie?” Bucky breathed, the name slipping past his lips before he could register where it came from. Images started flashing through his mind: gold hair in the sunlight, blue eyes wide and earnest, skinny arms covered in bruises, tiny fists raised for a fight, and weaving through and over and under it all the smell of wood smoke, the taste of strawberry candy, and the cloying sense of _stop wrong forbidden stop forbiddenwrongforbiddenFORBIDDEN—_

There was a weapon. The Winter Soldier was crouched in a defensive stance, arms raised to ward off a blow. The children were screaming. The one with a cape was waving some sort of weird hammer in the air, while the stocky one, toddler now firmly affixed to his pant leg, was holding him back and shouting some instruction or information to the redhead. The redhead, for her part, had a gun out, which the Soldier immediately honed in on. This was what had brought him out of his mental spiral: there was a weapon. It was aimed at him.

 


	10. Winter Soldier

_Move._ The Soldier dodged to the right and lunged forward, aiming for the weapon. The redhead didn’t fire. Her concentration was split—with her other hand she was trying to shove the lanky one under the table. This was made difficult by the furiously struggling boy in his arms, and at the sight of tiny fists flailing at a captor’s head, the Soldier’s priority shifted.

He reached the girl and shoved her aside. There was a thud as she hit the wall, and a white-hot sting of agony as a bullet ripped into the Soldier’s torso just under his metal arm. A glancing shot: no immediate action required. He catalogued the wound and ignored the pain. Quickly he scooped the target out of the lanky boy’s arms, pushing the boy away and into the table with his metal hand as he did.

The Soldier’s leg tried to crumple beneath him: the girl had kicked him on the side of the knee. He kept moving, vaulting over the table. Yet another blossom of pain—there was a fork stuck in his side. It had come from the stocky boy, who was already grabbing another fork off the table and taking aim. The Soldier curved his body to protect the target as he landed and kept going, toward the kitchen. Beyond that, he knew, there was heavy furniture he could barricade behind, and the path to the exit.

There was a man in the kitchen doorway. There was a man, and he was shouting something, and his words pierced through the Soldier’s single-minded determination and brought him crashing to a halt. The words meant _stop,_ and they had to be obeyed.

The Winter Soldier stopped. The man was still talking, calling him “Barnes” and “Sergeant” and “Soldier” all in the same sentence, and he wanted the Soldier to hand over the target. The Soldier trembled, arms tightening around the squirming boy pressed against his chest. He had to obey orders, but he could not release the target. “I must protect the target,” the Soldier said. Maybe the man would accept this and he would be allowed to hold on to the boy.

This seemed to be satisfactory, as the man stopped giving orders and started relaying information. The Soldier struggled to process it. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” the man was saying. “Bucky. You’re Bucky. You’re in Avengers Tower, in New York. You’re safe. Everyone is safe.”

It was like coming down from a great height and no longer hearing the rush of wind in your ears, only it happened slowly. The silence grew louder, and sound echoed in it, ringing oddly like muffled bells. Color leached back into the world, replacing the darting analysis of movement and shadows. Thoughts filtered into his head, slipping between the strict lines of observation and objective, filling up a space he didn’t know was empty, until suddenly he was aware again of who he was.

There was a boy in Bucky’s arms, wriggling and beating his feet against Bucky’s stomach. _Stevie,_ his mind supplied. He didn’t chase the thought. Bucky lowered the boy carefully to the floor. He didn’t move as the boy scurried away from him, despite the sudden sense of loss and the guilt that slammed into him like a tidal wave. Sam Wilson was standing in front of him, still saying his name. “Are you back, Bucky? Are you yourself?” The boy stopped a couple feet away, still shaking from adrenaline and fear. Bucky didn’t flinch at the fury in his expression. He did close his eyes against it, and turn away.

Bucky nodded, and Sam Wilson breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered. There was still a fork in his right side, which he pulled out with a wince. He was bleeding rather heavily where the bullet had grazed him. He tried to stem the flow of it with his jacket, so it wouldn’t get all over the floor.

The silence at his back felt like knives. Bucky ducked his head and pushed past Wilson, flinching when Wilson ordered, “Don’t go far.”

One of the children said, accusingly, “I thought you said this place was safe.”

Bucky fled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure Bucky probably had cheat codes programmed into him, so Hydra could stop him if he went rogue. That information was probably guarded so heavily that everyone who knows about it is dead by now, but maybe Bucky remembered at some point and told the Avengers.
> 
> Most of them just call it a cheat code, though not in front of Steve or Bucky. (Most of them won’t say it in front of Nat, either, though Clint does so with impunity.) Nat calls it something long and cumbersome, which she says sounds better in Russian. Steve calls it a last resort.  
> Bucky doesn’t call it anything at all. He’s only brought it up once, as “a phrase that will stop me,” and he repeated it twice to make sure Natasha had caught it before never speaking of it again.


	11. Can’t Even Make It To Dinner Without a Near-Death Experience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long, but this entire _month_ has basically been Finals Month and it has killed me. I am dead. I am writing to you now from beyond the grave, because there are no rules over here about updating your fanfiction and I deserve something nice after that twenty-page paper I had to write for poli-sci.  
>  I hope you guys did well on your finals, if you had them, and are enjoying a lovely holiday now. If not, well, I hope you'll at least enjoy the chapter.

Sam hadn’t been this terrified in _years._ His hands were clammy and his heart was pounding wildly. He figured with any luck it’d slow down sometime next month.

A part of him hadn’t expected the cheat code to work. He’d seen Natasha use it, stopping the Winter Soldier dead in his tracks the last time there’d been an incident, but Natasha could pull off an air of menace that Sam could only aspire to. He was painfully glad she’d made him memorize it, though. Steve had been able to talk Barnes down twice already, just talking, and Barton of all people had pulled it off once in the gym, but Sam wasn’t too keen on his own chances. He’d have had to fight the Winter Soldier, alone, in a room full of kids.

The Avengers were all frozen in place, trembling from pent-up adrenaline and fear. Bruce had buried his face in Clint’s shirt and was sobbing into it very, very quietly. Clint was staring blankly at the wall and running his fingers nervously through Bruce’s hair, still clutching a fork in one hand. Steve was standing ramrod straight, clenching and unclenching his fists, and Thor kept shifting from one foot to the other and had Mjölnir hugged against his chest again. Stark was leaning heavily on the dining table, his arms twitching like they weren’t strong enough to hold him up. Only Natasha was moving, picking herself up from the floor with a hand pressed to her head. There was blood on her fingers, and Sam wondered a little deliriously if he was going to freak out about it.

“I thought you said this place was safe,” Stark snarled, breathlessly.

“It is,” Sam promised, the sound of his own voice jolting him out of his adrenaline-induced haze. He could feel himself start to tremble, too, as it left his system, and tried desperately to clamp down on it. He couldn’t let the kids see how scared he was. “Sergeant Barnes won’t be a threat any more. Jarvis, keep an eye on him and make sure. Is anyone hurt?”

“He slammed me into the table, of course I’m hurt!” Stark exploded. “And Natasha got thrown at the wall! Who the fuck was that?”

“Bird man,” Clint said, low and urgent, “Steve’s having an asthma attack.”

Sam hadn’t thought it was possible for him to panic even more, but he’d been wrong. Steve was taking gulping breaths, fighting to keep them slow and even and losing the fight. His hands were bunched in fists, pressing against his legs, and he was shaking all over like it was all he could do to keep standing.

“There’s a plastic bag in the living room,” Sam said quickly, too loud and too sharp like he was barking orders in the field, “in the cabinet behind the couch. There’s an inhaler in there.”

Clint ran for the next room. Bruce gave out a whimper and bolted after him. Sam knelt down by Steve’s side, hands fluttering nervously until he forced them to do something useful. He started rubbing soothing circles into the boy’s back. “Clint’s getting your inhaler,” he said. “Just hold on a little bit longer.”

Steve flicked his eyes over to meet Sam’s but didn’t waste any energy answering. “What is this? What ails Steve?” Thor demanded in the background. Sam tried to gather himself to answer, but it was all he could do just to keep murmuring quiet encouragement to Steve.

“He’s got asthma,” Stark said shortly. “He can’t breathe.”

“But he will be well?” Thor asked shrilly. “Sam will make him well?”

Suddenly Steve bent over double around a vicious coughing fit. A cold fist clenched around Sam’s heart, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe either. “Focus on my voice,” Sam urged, struggling to keep the panic out of his tone. “In and out, nice and steady. In and out. Come on, man, for me. In and out.”

Clint rushed back into the room and shoved the inhaler into Sam’s hands. Sam checked the label and was relieved to see it was the right one. He shook out the inhaler and took off the cap. “Okay, Steve, now take a deep breath. Deep breath, okay man, deep as you can.”

Steve gave him a baleful glare but did his best, gasping a few times before collapsing into coughs again. “I guess that’s good enough,” Sam muttered. “You know how this works?” _Did they even have inhalers in the forties?_ “I’m gonna spritz this in your mouth. You breathe it in and _hold that breath,_ you got it? Ten seconds, I’ll keep track.”

Steve nodded, holding back his coughing again just long enough to breathe in the medicine. Sam counted the seconds while Steve held his breath. He didn’t make it past three.

It took four puffs before Steve was pulling in ragged breaths with only slight wheezing, and Sam finally sat back on his haunches and tried not to melt with relief. He looked up and found the other kids huddled close around them, even Natasha hovering protectively behind everyone else. The moment Sam met her eyes she jerked guiltily and spun on her heel to watch the doors.

Sam shook his head and promised himself he’d find out what was going on there as soon as he had a spare moment. Of course, right now a spare moment seemed about as likely as Loki riding in on a pink unicorn and handing out free candy. Thor was still asking increasingly high-pitched questions, Bruce had turned the bottom of Clint’s shirt into a soggy mess, and Stark was swearing furiously under his breath in a steady stream of expletives.

“He’s okay, guys,” Sam said, trying not to sound as exhausted as he felt. He’d been doing this for less than two hours and already he wanted to sleep for a week. “He’s going to be fine.”

They hadn’t even made it to dinner without a near-death experience. Hill was going to kill him. “Shit,” Sam said when he remembered the food. “I mean—sorry. Will someone go turn off the stove so the meat doesn’t burn?” Natasha scurried out to the kitchen. “Great. Thanks. Okay. If you guys don’t mind, I’m going to look you over and make sure you’re not hurt too bad. Is that okay?”

He asked Steve first, and Steve nodded but insisted nothing hurt. Sam showed him how to use the inhaler and checked anyway, making him lift his arms and bend his knees and poking his ribs for bruising. There was something wrong with his left knee – he winced when Sam straightened it all the way – but Steve insisted that was normal. Sam made a note to tell Hill’s incoming doctor and let him go. Steve sat down on one of the couches by the windows, where Clint and Bruce had already curled up and were having a whispered conversation with lots of gesturing. Thor plopped down next to Steve and asked, timidly, if he was well again.

Stark talked furiously the whole time, saying his back was on fire and being in this apartment was hazardous to his health and really this had to be the worst security he’d ever seen on a kidnapping, even worse than the time with the rogue chihuahua, what kind of a kidnapper let crazy people run loose in the building where they were keeping the hostages, seriously this was a disgrace, he’d be docking this from the ransom.

“Sure, Tony. Let me see your back.”

“Like fucking hell I’m taking my shirt off for you, you fucking pervert, you stay the hell away from me, and where the fuck do you get off calling me Tony anyway, we’re not friends, you better keep your fucking hands off me or I swear—”

“Fine, Stark,” Sam interrupted, making sure to stress the name. “No problem. There’s a doctor on her way. She can take a look, or you can go to the bathroom and check in the mirror yourself.”

Stark stopped ranting and squinted suspiciously at Sam. Sam ignored him and beckoned to Natasha, who was standing by the couches with her back against the wall and tapping absently at her pistol. She stiffened, taking a moment to steel herself before marching over. There was a gash on her forehead, just under her hairline, dried blood already clumping around it. Sam wet a dishcloth from the kitchen and dabbed at the cut. Natasha kept her eyes dead ahead and didn’t move while he worked.

“Stark said you got thrown into the wall,” Sam said. “Is that what this is from?”

“Yessir.”

“Just Sam is fine. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

She rolled her shoulders experimentally. “Nosir.”

“Just Sam,” he repeated gently. “Not sir.” The cut wasn’t deep, he was relieved to see – just an overenthusiastic bruise, really. “I’ll get you a band-aid,” he promised, “but for now how about we eat? You kids hungry?” he called.

Steve and Thor whooped and stampeded towards the table. “Nuh-uh, wash your hands first,” Sam ordered. “Bathroom’s that way.” Steve rolled his eyes and dragged a confused Thor after him. The others followed more sedately, Bruce still clutching Clint’s hand. Clint’s shirt was downright soaked from all the crying Bruce had done into it. _I need to get these kids clothes,_ Sam thought, kicking himself for not having done it already. Steve was still wandering around in nothing but Sam’s sweater, for chrissakes. Bruce was practically drowning in his shirt – Sam wasn’t entirely sure he still had pants on, either.

Where was he going to find toddler-sized pants in the Tower, though? He could order some via Jarvis, but how were they going to explain the Avengers ordering children’s clothes? Medicine they could just about get away with, but clothing? If there were any spies watching the Tower…

Natasha was still there, standing at attention and watching him with trepidation. Sam blinked at her. “You too, Nat. Go wash your hands.” She frowned. “Oh, right, sorry. Should I call you Natasha? Or Romanoff?”

She gave him a weird look. “Whatever you prefer,” she said slowly.

Steve and Thor zoomed back into the room and into their seats. Steve started banging his cutlery on the table and chanting, “Pasta! Pasta! Pasta!” Thor didn’t take more than a second to catch on and start doing the same.

Sam laughed and went to the kitchen to do their bidding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were in fact inhalers in the forties, sort of. They were called nebulizers, and they worked rather similarly. There was a long glass tube, which you'd breathe from, and a rubber bulb you'd squeeze to 'nebulize' the medicine, vaporizing it and sending it through the tube. They were pretty cheap, but since they were made of glass they were also pretty fragile. Steve probably took good care of his, mostly, but he got in a lot of fights and probably went through these things way too fast. With any luck Sarah was able to take some from the hospital where she worked, or at least get them at a discount.
> 
> Also yes, Sam did start thinking of Clint as Clint rather than Barton, and he hasn't really noticed it yet but I have. I am the sort of author who overthinks EVERYTHING. If you notice something like that changing, it was probably me trying to subtly or unsubtly make some point about something. I'm not always sure what, but _something._


	12. Not Fully a Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I try to get Sam to explain what's going on, Tony or Steve will interrupt. They're impossible. I don't know how to get them to stop.

“So since I clearly didn’t get my point across the first time,” Stark said as he dropped into the chair at the head of the table between Steve and Natasha, “allow me to reiterate this very pertinent and important question, the answer to which I think we can all agree we are positively _dying_ to know: _who the fuck was that?”_

“No swearing!” Steve said fiercely before Sam could even open his mouth.

“Who’s gonna make me, pipsqueak?”

Steve balled up his fists. “Swearing’s not nice!”

“How is this swearing?” Thor asked, sounding genuinely curious. “Tony uttered no truly foul oaths, merely words that did not fit together.”

“He said fuck,” Steve said indignantly. “Fuck’s the _worst_ word.”

“And you just said it twice,” Stark taunted.

“No,” Thor insisted, “the worst word is wolf-get. Or maybe raven-starver.”

“That makes _no_ sense—”

Clint, Natasha, and Bruce seemed content to gobble down their pasta and watch as the other three shouted over each other. Sam wondered if there was any point even trying to rein in this madness. _Probably not,_ he decided. “I’ll be back,” he told the empty air, and went looking for Barnes.

Sam found him in the bathroom down the hall from the living room, sitting in the bathtub in a t-shirt and underwear with his head buried in his knees. Barnes had hurled his shoes against the opposite wall – there was a footprint-shaped smudge on the tile – but his pants were folded neatly on top of the toilet. His hoodie was crumpled up next to him, stained with blood. His left side was turned to the wall, but Sam thought he was probably still bleeding. There was a crimson ribbon seeping sluggishly from the jacket to the drain.

Sam steeled himself and walked in, making sure to scuff his shoes on the floor as he did. Barnes didn’t move.

“There’s a first aid kit under the sink,” Sam said conversationally.

“Is he hurt?” Barnes asked hoarsely.

“He’s fine. Not a scratch on him.” Sam crouched down by the sink to get out the first aid kit.

“And the others?”

“They’re fine too,” Sam said calmly, pocketing a band-aid for Natasha. “You didn’t hurt anyone.”

It wasn’t fully a lie, but Sam regretted it instantly. _You know better,_ he berated himself. You don’t lie to people who don’t trust their own minds, not even little white lies. “Just a bit of bruising,” he said lightly, trying to fix it, at least a little. Barnes hunched in on himself even further.

Sam winced. _Breathe,_ he reminded himself. _Don’t freak out. You know how to do this._

First things first: what did Barnes know? Sam rocked back on his heels and turned to face him. “What has Jarvis told you?”

Barnes twitched. Sam waited, trying not to shift his weight or do anything that might indicate impatience. He glanced down at the first aid kit, balanced across his knees, and tried to guess whether it would be enough for Barnes’ wounds. There was a hole in his side from a fork – Sam didn’t know how any of the kids had gotten close enough to stab him, but maybe Steve had done it – and the still-bleeding gash under his metal arm was probably from the gun Sam had heard go off. There was gauze, tape, and antiseptic in the kit, but if Barnes needed stitches Sam would have to fetch the larger kit in the living room. And then he’d have to actually give stitches to the Winter Soldier, which would mean putting his head right next to that metal arm and not flinching—

“He said the Avengers got turned into kids.”

Barnes lifted his head just enough to peek at Sam from behind his hair. Sam tried to wipe his thoughts off his face. “That was them, wasn’t it?” Barnes asked. “That was—” Barnes drew in a ragged breath. “That was Stevie.”

“Yes,” Sam said simply. “We don’t know how it happened. Hill has her people trying to figure it out, so we can change them back.”

Until this moment, Sam hadn’t actually thought about the possibility that there might not be a cure. Dread spiked through him. He tried to force it down. “I’m watching them for now, because there’s no one else Hill can spare. She’s sending a doctor over in—a couple hours, I think, but it’s just to be safe. They all seem okay.”

“I recognized him,” Barnes said, softly like the words might break. “I remembered him.”

“What did you remember?”

“He was always so angry.” Barnes was gazing at the wall, head tilted slightly, like solving a math problem. He sounded faraway. “But not sad. He would smile… He smiled so easy. We would play in the park,” he said dreamily. “Under the tree with the knobby branches. There was… sunlight.”

Barnes frowned, like the math problem was refusing to come out right. “He didn’t use to be so sad.”

Sam waited again, but this time Barnes seemed lost in his thoughts. “Do you mind if I take a look at that?” he offered, and his voice sounded too loud. Barnes’ eyes snapped to meet his, and suddenly they were dark and furious. Sam swallowed hard. He tried not to remember Barnes’ eyes as he’d torn off Sam’s wing and flung him into the sky.

“It’ll heal,” Barnes said harshly.

Sam lost his balance and wobbled awkardly to regain it. “You did get shot,” he said, and it didn’t sound nearly as mild and nonchalant as he’d been going for. Barnes flinched.

“I’m resilient,” he growled. “Just leave it.”

“I’m a paramedic,” Sam said stubbornly, wondering as he did why he didn’t just take the easy out and flee. “Are you sure you won’t let me help?”

“Just go!” Barnes shouted, and Sam stumbled backwards from the force of it and fell on his butt. Barnes turned to stare at him, stricken, and Sam knew his fear must be showing on his face. _Dammit._ Barnes shrank away. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” Barnes lowered his head into shaking hands and grabbed fistfuls of his hair, and his shoulders started to tremble like he might cry.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Sam said. “Look at me. Barnes, _look at me.”_

Barnes did, unwillingly. “It’s okay,” Sam repeated. “I’m fine, we’re all fine, it’s okay. You’re okay. Do you understand? You don’t have to apologize. None of this is your fault."

Barnes lowered his gaze and nodded tiredly. “Look,” Sam said, “I don’t have to be the one to do it, but you do need to clean up your wounds. Do you want me to help? You’re allowed to say no.”

After a moment Barnes shook his head, flicking his eyes up to catch Sam’s reaction. Sam did his best to hide both his disappointment and his relief. Instead he smiled – friendly, reassuring – and made sure it reached his eyes. “Alright, no problem. Do you want me to fetch you some new clothes?”

“No, that—” Barnes cleared his throat and tried again. “That’s okay. No.”

“Do you want anything else?” Barnes shook his head. “I have to get back to the kids,” Sam said, “but you can come get me if you need anything, or ask Jarvis to call me. Okay? I’ll come as fast as I can.”

Sam waited until Barnes nodded before standing up to leave, and he waited until he was back in the living room before letting out a violent shudder and sinking against the wall. _Deep breaths._ He had to keep it together. He rubbed at his eyes, but it didn’t erase the image of the Winter Soldier advancing on him like death incarnate.

Steve’s words echoed in his ears. _Fly up! Get as far as you—_ What if that turned out to be the last thing Captain America ever said? What if this was the end of the Avengers? What if Sam never got his friends back?

“God, what did I get myself into,” he mumbled.

_Should’ve just stayed on the ground._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thor's language barrier comes up in the weirdest ways. Apparently the Norse were really not fond of wolves, and "son of a wolf" was a horrible thing to call someone. Raven-starver presumably sounds a lot better in Old Norse, and it means coward (because you don't go into battle and provide food for all those ravens that are waiting around to feed on the corpses of your enemies). I'm sure they had crude and dirty words for fucking, but they wouldn't have used them the way we do in English, so Thor just think Tony sounds weird.
> 
> Bucky has so many issues. I'm so sorry.


	13. War Council

The moment Sam’s footsteps faded out of earshot, Tony leaned forward and said intently, “We’re definitely in the future. Nothing in that kitchen should exist, and did you see that screen in the other room? It’s huge! Whatever that is, even my dad doesn’t have one.

“So the question is—” he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Who is Sam? Who does he work for? And why did they bring us here?”

“He was terrified that Steve might die,” Natasha volunteered. Clint turned his head to follow the conversation, watching their lips, and Tony hoped they were speaking clearly enough for him to understand. “He was not afraid for himself, but for Steve,” Natasha elaborated. “He isn’t keeping us alive because a superior told him to.”

“You’re saying he cares about us,” Tony said flatly.

“Of course he does!” Steve piped up. “He gave me his shirt! And he showed me how to use this.” He waved the inhaler in the air.

“I know how to read people,” Natasha said with a shrug. “It’s possible he’s just a very good actor, but he was under unexpected stress. I’m probably right.”

 _You’re a kid,_ Tony almost said. _What do you know?_ He had a weird feeling that’d be a stupid question, though. Possibly because of the gun Natasha was still wearing and the ease with which she drew and fired it, but mostly because of the matter-of-fact way she proclaimed her competence. She wasn’t even bothering to brag.

Tony filed that away in the Natasha folder in his head. “But then why put us in danger from the freaky ninja guy?” Tony made a karate chop motion for emphasis.

“Maybe it was to scare us,” Clint suggested.

Natasha nodded. “A test.”

“A show of force,” Clint said. Thor nodded seriously in agreement from Steve's other side.

Tony frowned. “Steve, you said something before he attacked. Did you recognize him? Do you know who he is?”

Steve poked at his pasta and didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “No,” he muttered.

“Do you think you’ve seen him before?”

This time Steve shook his head. “No.”

“You ran toward him,” said Natasha. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Steve squirmed uncomfortably. “I missed him.”

“But you’d never seen him before,” Tony repeated.

Steve shook his head, looking miserable and confused. “Cut the kid a break,” Clint said suddenly around a mouthful of spaghetti. Tony opened his mouth to argue, but Clint sent him a pointed glare. “He doesn’t know.”

“Fine.” Tony turned to Natasha. “What about you? You had your gun out before he’d even moved.”

Natasha’s eyes widened in alarm, then her face went abruptly blank. Tony jerked away. That was deeply creepy. “He stood like a threat,” Natasha said, voice neutral. “I reacted instinctively.”

“Your first instinct was to shove Steve at me and try to crack my head on the table?”

“I wanted you to take cover under the table,” Natasha said evenly, her voice still devoid of inflection.

“Well why didn’t you _say_ so, instead of trying to brain me with the furniture?!”

She glared at him. “I did. You weren’t listening.”

“I was a little busy with the screaming child trying to kick my knees in!”

“Hey!” Steve protested.

“Not to mention the gun you were waving in my face! Those are pretty fucking distracting, did no one ever tell you?”

“I was only trying to protect you!” Natasha retorted, and now she finally looked angry rather than eerily blank. Tony leaned back in relief.

“I don’t need your goddamn protection,” he snarled. “You nearly shot me! You think I didn’t notice how close that bullet came to going through my fucking head?” Tony’s mouth went dry just at the memory. He forced himself not to wipe his suddenly clammy palms on his pants.

Natasha sucked in a breath, and for a bare instant she looked hurt. Tony only saw it because he was watching, and even then it was gone so fast he might have imagined it. “She wasn’t aiming at you!” Steve remonstrated. “And stop swearing.”

Tony ignored him, holding Natasha’s furious gaze with his own. “I don’t answer to you,” she said, more coolly than he would have expected from the sparks flying out of her eyes.

“So who do you answer to?”

Natasha’s mouth opened to answer, but nothing came out. Suddenly she looked lost. “I–I don’t know,” she finally said, eyes tracking back and forth in growing panic as she tried to remember.

“What do you know?” Clint asked, surprisingly gentle. Clint was eating left-handed, his right hand hidden under the table. Bruce, sitting between Clint and Natasha, had his head down and his left hand clenched tight in his lap. _They’re holding hands,_ Tony realized in surprise. He added that to his mental files.

Natasha frowned. “I have to protect you. All of you. You’re my… you’re mine to protect.”

“We too will protect you,” Thor said solemnly. Natasha cocked her head like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to object.

Tony bit his lip. “Alright,” he said, pitching his voice low again to draw attention back to himself. He waited until Clint was watching his lips to say, “This is what we know. The technology here is light-years ahead of anything that should exist. We’re either in the future or on another planet. Future seems more likely.” He started ticking off on his fingers. “Sam is from a military organization. Probably private military or some sort of special forces.” Tony had been around enough soldiers to recognize when something was off, and the soldiers in the warehouse hadn’t acted like standard US Army.

“Sam wants to keep us safe.” His eyes flicked to Natasha, who didn’t acknowledge his concession. “But if he’s not afraid his boss’ll chew him out for letting us die, then his bosses might not care.”

Now Steve and Clint looked scared, and Thor was frowning in consternation. Tony felt a little bad, but plowed on. “They probably don’t, since they put us in an apartment with the freaky ninja guy.” Tony lost track of which finger he was on and instead gestured toward the kitchen. Steve’s face shut down at the mention of the ninja guy, and Natasha’s hand drifted to rest on her gun. Tony tried not to shy away from the movement.

Tony took a breath. “We still don’t remember how we got to that warehouse, or how we know each other.” Tony glanced at each of them for confirmation, and found everyone directing troubled looks at their pasta.

“We do know each other,” Tony said. This time most of them looked up to meet his eyes. “We do know each other,” he repeated for Clint’s benefit, and was surprised to see spines straighten as the kids nodded in agreement. Even Bruce looked up warily from his plate.

“We know each other, and we’ll protect each other,” Tony said, trying to sound serious and reassuring. He was a little shocked when it seemed to work. Steve and Thor puffed up their chests, and Clint and Natasha shared a small, determined nod. They all turned to Tony, and even Bruce looked hopeful. Tony tried not to balk under the weight of their expectant gazes.

“Sam says there are people out there who want to hurt us, and he freaked out when we mentioned leaving. He also says we’re _superheroes_ , so either he’s a few screws short of a Frankenstein or else he thinks we're dumb enough to believe anything. But he doesn’t seem stupid and he wants us safe. I vote we do what he says for now and act like we trust him.”

The kids greeted this suggestion with silence. “I do trust him,” Steve said after a moment, for once not sounding like he wanted to start a fight. “Just like I trust you. I think maybe in the future we’re friends.”

Clint nodded hesitantly, and Thor said, “I as well.”

Tony couldn’t deny that he felt the same, but it wasn’t logical. “Natasha?” he asked.

“I think…I’m also meant to guard Sam,” she said slowly. “I don’t feel I have to protect you from him. I will,” she added hurriedly. “If I have to I will. But I don’t think I’ll have to. I think…” She tilted her head uncertainly. “He might be my handler.”

Tony gaped. A number of things clicked into place.

Natasha stiffened. “He’s coming back.”

Tony pasted on a grin. “So Steve,” he said jovially, “if you had to pick a superpower, what would it be?”


	14. You Do Not Reveal Another’s Weaknesses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with chapter titles for ease of navigation! I also edited the last chapter to show where everyone’s sitting, because… it seemed important at the time. Tony’s at the head of the table; to his right you’ve got Steve and Thor, and to his left are Natasha, Bruce, and Clint.
> 
> ...not much happens in this chapter. Sorry about that.

Sam took a deep, shuddering breath and pulled himself to his feet. “Jarvis, keep me posted on Barnes. Tell me if he… if he does anything worrying. Let me know when he leaves the bathroom, and where he goes, okay?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Great. Now I just need to find these kids some clothes,” he muttered.

“Shall I order some for you, sir?” JARVIS offered.

“No, no, don’t do that! We can’t let anyone know what’s happened. We don’t know who’s watching, or how they’re watching. Buying them clothes is way too obvious.”

“Leave it to me, sir.”

“What?”

“I’ll take care of it,” JARVIS said smoothly. “Furthermore, Director Hill has just communicated to me that Colonel Rhodes will be arriving in roughly forty minutes.”

“Rhodes? You mean War Machine?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Wow. Okay. That’s…” not how Sam had wanted to meet James Rhodes, but beggars, choosers, etc. “Helpful, I guess. Why?”

“The director indicated it was because Colonel Rhodes ‘thinks he’s Stark’s own government-sponsored Terminator nanny.’”

Sam snorted. “Right. Let me know when he gets here.”

When Sam got back to the dining room, the kids were avidly discussing the merits of super-strength as compared to flight. Sam leaned tiredly against the doorframe and found himself smiling at Clint’s insistence that if you could fly, you wouldn’t _need_ super-strength because you’d have more momentum, and anyway you could get away instead of having to fight. Bruce said quietly that it’d be cool to shrink down really tiny and find out how things worked from the inside. “Then you could ride a cat!” Steve added. “That’d be so keen!”

Thor scoffed. “Tis difficult to do battle if you are tiny. Far better to grow into a giant and crush your foes beneath you!”

Stark caught sight of Sam and narrowed his eyes. “Hey,” Sam said by way of greeting. Thor trailed off as Sam pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. He could feel all the kids’ eyes on him.

Sam ladled some pasta onto his plate. He was starving, and he knew he should put food in his stomach even if he felt too keyed up to actually eat. The kids bent their heads to their meal, their silverware clinking in the silence. Bruce and Thor kept stealing glances around the table at the rest of them, and Sam was willing to bet Natasha was doing the same, for all he couldn’t see her moving.

 _They’ve been talking about me,_ Sam realized. _And they’ve decided they don’t trust me._ It stung, but it’d be unfair to expect anything else. Sam went for casual as he asked, “So how old are you lot, anyway?”

Stark looked up. Sam was taken aback by the calculating look on his face—that same look had been leveled at him when Steve had first introduced Sam to the Avengers. Stark had flashed a million-dollar grin, welcomed Sam as “the one with the jetpack and the death wish” (which Natasha later assured him was mostly a compliment) and started waxing rhapsodic about the wings, but all the time Stark’s eyes had been deliberate and assessing. 

It was intimidating, but Sam wasn’t easily intimidated. He reminded himself of this as a teenager in sweatpants eyed him like a malfunctioning robot he was going to dismantle for spare parts.

“Fourteen,” Stark said.

“Nine,” said Steve. Sam couldn’t stop the look of surprise that flitted across his face; Steve barely came up to his knee. Steve saw it and jutted his chin out mulishly. “Am too!” he protested.

“I believe you,” Sam said hastily. “Thor, how about you?”

“Three hundred and seventy-six,” the god said proudly.

Stark snorted.

“Of course you are,” Sam said. “Right. Natasha?”

“Ten years, six months,” she said after a moment.

“What about you, Bruce?”

“Three,” Bruce said shyly. “And three quarters.”

 _Is it normal for three-year-olds to know fractions?_ But then, Dr Banner was just as much a genius as Stark, for all he didn’t go around waving it in people’s face. Sam smiled encouragingly. “You’re pretty smart for a three-year-old, aren’t you?” Bruce blushed and twisted in his seat. “And you, Clint?”

Barton gave Sam a surly look and shrugged noncommittally. “He can’t hear you,” said Stark. “He’s deaf.”

Natasha slapped Stark upside the head. Stark yelped in surprise. “You do not reveal another’s weaknesses,” Natasha hissed. She seemed ready to murder Stark then and there.

“He told us in the van!” Stark yelped. “I didn’t think it was a secret! Why would he tell us if it was a secret?”

“It’s still none of your business,” Steve huffed. Clint was shifting in his seat, hunching down over his spaghetti. Natasha’s fingers twitched slightly, curling around the handle of her knife.

“Whoa, whoa, it’s okay,” Sam said quickly. “We’ll get Clint some hearing aids, no problem. Hey, Clint.” Sam waved a hand across the table, and when Clint glanced up he signed, _How’s the pasta?_

Clint started in surprise. “It’s good,” he said, out loud. “Wait, what?”

“How do you know sign language?” Stark demanded.

“You mean you don’t?” Steve sniped. “I thought you knew everything.”

“Ha ha,” Stark sneered. “I’ll put it on the list, if I’m going to be stuck with this loser in the future.”

“I work at the VA,” Sam said. “Department of Veteran Affairs. Plenty of soldiers lose their hearing in war. I’m not exactly fluent, but I know enough.” Sam made sure to sign as he spoke, though he thought he might have gotten a couple words wrong about halfway through. “So how old are you, Clint?”

Clint stared at him in consternation for a moment, then flicked his first two fingers up twice. “Twelve?” Sam confirmed. Clint nodded. “Thanks,” Sam said with a smile.

Steve asked, “How old are you, Sam?”

“I’m thirty-seven.”

Steve wrinkled his nose. “You’re _old.”_

“Not as old as Thor, apparently,” Tony said with a disbelieving smirk.

“Verily, you are all quite mature for your ages.” Thor sounded politely confused. Sam tried his best not to crack up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good readers, what would you like to see next? I put these two questions to a vote:  
> 1\. Does Tony know Rhodey? Has he, at the age of fourteen, met Rhodey?  
> 2\. Who is the mysterious doctor Maria Hill is sending over? Is it SHIELD’s own Jemma Simmons, leading expert on bizarre biochemical phenomena of magical or alien origin? (If so we’re going to have to pretend most of AoS has never happened, both because it wouldn’t mesh with the story and because I haven’t watched past the first season.) Is it Helen Cho, world-renowned geneticist? Is it a doctor from the comics, one hitherto unmentioned in the MCU but uniquely suited to this particular situation? Or shall we do a crossover, in which I bring in a character of your suggestion from an entirely different universe and we all delight in her presence among our superheroes?
> 
> In other notes, Maria’s title at Stark Industries is, in fact, Director of Avengers Operations. Pepper created and named the job, as a friendly gesture to Maria – since she couldn’t be Director of SHIELD (as she would have been, with Fury out of the picture), she can at least be Director here.  
> I noticed there were a few things I forgot to say, and as such went back and retconned in that this was Sam’s first time working with the Avengers and it was meant to be an easy trial run, and also explicitly stated that Bucky’s been having a lot of trouble remembering anything from his past and feels super guilty about it. Also please imagine four-year-old Bruce hopefully patting the chair next to him for Clint to sit in and being ridiculously happy when Clint gives him a small smile and does exactly what he asks.


End file.
